


Midnight in Eden

by pearypie



Series: blue moonlight on yellow sand [3]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Romance, Dark, F/M, Siblings, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 15:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: (“Have you always resented me dearest sis?”)There are so many ways in which he could express desire but their affection was damned - a punishment of Venus in all her vain, dripping glory.So they hid and supped on honey wine, drunk and intoxicated by the perfumed sighs escaping each other's lips. Phantomhive blood coursed through her veins and the blood on his mouth reflected the crimson in her cheeks.This, then, was their paradise circus.





	Midnight in Eden

“I am so in love with you it’s sickening.” Vincent smiles, watching the way Frances fixed her hair in the boudoir, twisting the moon colored coils into a fanciful style that rested at the top of her head, leaving a single curl down to caress her cheek when she moved. “You’ve always had such lovely hair—aren’t you glad I prevented you from chopping it all off when you were twelve? I still have the scar to prove it.”

“I can’t believe you jumped in between me and my sabre.” Frances sounds half-amused, half-exasperated and it’s the most pleasant he knows his sister will sound on a day such as this. “I don’t know what possessed you to—I could have severed your hand from your wrist and then where would you be?”

He shrugs. “A one-armed watchdog? I could’ve been the greatest literary cliche the world had ever seen—girls dreaming of a dark and mysterious avenger with one hand and fiery eyes—“

“Oh stop while you’re ahead.” Frances admonishes. “You’re starting to sound like Druitt.”

Vincent rises from his seat on her bed and the motion—while perfectly innocuous—somehow looks alluringly seductive as he lifts one hand from behind his head and then the other, unwinding like a cat beneath the July sun. “Why baby sister have you adopted a sense of humor?” He teases lowly, closing the distance between them with a few slow sides. She is dabbing fragrance on the inside of her wrists when she looks up to see Vincent standing behind her.

“What?” She demands, sounding more than somewhat annoyed. “I won’t be held accountable for your tardiness—“

“But you’re my sister.” He returns, as if that explained all there was to know. “You’re _Frances Phantomhive._ You’re never late.”

“And you’ll never be able to walk again if you come a single step closer.” She unclasps a tube of gold.

_Lipstick._

Vincent grins. “Don’t put that on yet.” He commands lazily, hands in his pockets.

Frances tilts her chin, head leaning back so that their gazes are parallel. “If you even _think_ of—“

“Too slow!” Vincent crows cheerfully, suddenly bending down with blinding speed to halt Frances’s speech midway, lips meeting hers in the sweetest refusal of speech. Tongue caressing his sister’s lips, Vincent smiles, trailing three kisses along the side of her jaw before righting himself. “I’m going to miss being able to do that.” He sighs mournfully, looking more put out than Frances can remember.

“I’m getting married, not executed.” She returns after a pause. “You can see me whenever you like—or whenever your schedule permits.” It is the stately, courteous thing to say.

But her brother has never been one for courtesy.

“I don’t see why you insist on getting married. You don’t need to.”

Frances scowls. “A spinster Phantomhive? Let’s not add to the repertoire of ‘dark and strange’ that we seem to acquire without trying.”

He laughs and it is a pleasant, harsh-sounding echo that startles Frances more than she’d ever care to admit. “What’s wrong with you?” She glares at him with a cross, very unhappy expression that is betrayed by the concern etched in her pretty jade eyes. “Vincent—“

“You have a place in my heart no one else can have but I’ll be losing that privilege won’t I?”

“What on earth are you going on about?” She moves gracefully—carefully—as the chiffon and lace veil fans out behind her like a gossamer stretch of morning dew. From the shadows, Vincent observes her and thinks everything would be so much better if she’d only stop pretending—

“Come now sister,” he grabs her wrist and swallows her protest with a kiss, “even you aren’t that obtuse.”

Teal eyes meet emerald and Frances averts her gaze, hands coming to push at her brother’s arms, at his sudden vice-like grip that’s more desperate than comforting. “Vincent.”

“Don’t tell me to go, not when you’ll be leaving me first.” His voice is low and his breath smells like bourbon as he whispers these words in her ear, face so close to hers that she bites her tongue, drawing blood. “Have you always resented me dearest sis?”

His words shatter the stronghold surrounding Frances’s heart and she is filled with a burning, incoherent rage that stabs through her ribcage and manifests in the sharp, cruel slap she deals Vincent. A smear of warm crimson blood decorates her fingertips and the force of it has ruined the cobalt perfection of his carefully combed hair, with strands falling in front of his sharp teal eyes and her handprint scarring the aristocratic elegance of his left cheek. “How can you say that,” she hisses, voice trembling with emotion that is magma hot, scalding her throat. Her brother's arms still hold her in place, a severe and inexorable prison that she never wants to leave. “I love you,” she cries, trying so desperately to keep her voice firm, “you’re a necessity and a luxury and— _I love you._ I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want _any_ of this but Vincent, you must realize there are things in this world that can’t be helped and—“

His mouth crashes on hers with a viciousness that seeks to dominate, suckling her bottom lip, tongue seeking entrance between rosebud lips. The metallic tang of Vincent's blood mixes with bitter bourbon and Frances responds with such uncharacteristic gentleness, pliant and willing as Vincent sinks into her. He tears the wedding veil from her hair, throwing it to the ground with childish force (her brother never was one for sharing) while his other hand seeks the soft and tender swell of his sister's right breast, fingers dancing along the lace-bead design, remembering nights when she would be straddling him half-nude, her dress pulled down to her hips as Vincent's mouth pleasured the soft flesh of her breasts, tongue hot and teasing as it swirled around the dusky pink bud before descending lower still.

He knows she is sensitive there from last night and he makes no effort to be gentle when he squeezes the soft mound with more force than necessary. 

A bubble of mad laughter escapes Frances's lips and Vincent smothers that too—he has always been a man of cerulean eloquence but now, he cares very little for the pretty words he has become known for. Infamy and prestige meld into a singular entity that bypasses both their bodies until, at last, only the intangible remained.

Vincent and Frances, mouths hot and cruel with a love that is near inexplicable. They are anchors, dragging each other to the ocean floor.

“I love you, I love you, _I love you—_ “

“You’re part of my existence, part of my very _being_ —“

Their words are muddled, frantic, but so forcefully said that even once they break away, Frances tucked in the crook of Vincent’s neck, her own arms chaining him to her, they are lovelorn and blood smeared and _alone._ So blissfully, wonderfully alone.

He holds her, letting the sharp planes of Frances cut him through until Vincent is a tangle of flesh and bone and blood. 

_I love you._

Half a moment passes before she feels the curve of Vincent’s smile—the resigned, curious little half-smirk he wears most often. “Well,” he sighs, “I suppose you shall always be my darling. Difficult, morose—but my darling still.”

“Shut up.” His sister mutters and snuggles closer to him. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." 

“I’d very much like to dearest sis but we’re late as it is, _tsk tsk._ For shame! I thought you more responsible than this!”

Her arms come around his neck, giving him one final embrace before breaking away, teal meeting emerald right as the clock strikes three. “Alright.” She smiles—and it is the loveliest, most wonderful smile Vincent has ever seen. 

He takes one hand—the one without the engagement ring—and kisses her rough calloused palm. “To the church then,” he declares, “before you turn to a pumpkin.” 

“If you’re insinuating that I’m _fat_ —“

“No, no, no— _supernaturally strong_ is the term I’d use—“

Her eyes narrow. “You,” she jabs one finger in his cheek, “are _insufferable._ ”

Vincent’s eyes twinkle, sharp and sparkling. “Kiss me then and see how important I am.”

“You’ve already received too many kisses—“

“Oh, indulge me Frannie.” Vincent interrupts, tipping her chin and stealing Frances’s kisses by the dozen. 

“Stop it!" She is half-stunned by her brother's loss of control, by the lingering, still beats of his bleeding heart. "Stop—or I shan’t have any kisses left for the alter—“

“That’s the _point_ —“ Vincent laughs and kisses her again, light and sweet and it is summer all over again. 

 

At the wedding reception, Vincent kisses his sister's cheek and gives her their mother’s favorite pendent. Onlookers ooh and aah at the rare display of emotion and no one notices the three drops of blood staining the collar of his fine silk brocade. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- "...you’re a necessity and a luxury" - Zelda Fitzgerald 
> 
> \- “I suppose you shall always be my darling. Difficult, morose—but my darling still.” - quote writ by Vladimir Nabokov in his 1962 novel 'Pale Fire' 
> 
> \- “Kiss me then and see how important I am.” - Sylvia Plath 
> 
> A/N: I have become waaaay too attached to this pairing :3 
> 
> Feedback appreciated!


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